White Fells

by R. Garland Gray

  He was beside her in a moment, sitting on the edge of the blankets and pushing her down gently. “If you agree to remain still, accept bed rest, and not wake our sons, I will tell you all that happened while you slept.”

  “You should not let her go alone, Boyden. She is old and blind.”

  “Scota, one does not tell a fey born druidess what to do and survive unscathed. Doona worry, I watched from the ridge gate. The villagers greeted her with food, having seen smoke rise from the fortress’s hearth.”

  “Why did she go?”

  “To seek out the simpler and women of the village to help us with our sons.”

  Tilting her head, she looked around him to the four sleeping babes. Yes, she thought, we need help, and settled back down. “We are not alone in this place?”

  Fingers caressed her cheek, gentling her. “Below this ruined fortress of distant views lies a sprawling village and surrounding farmlands. Does it make you feel better to know we are not?”

  “Yes.” She stared up into his gray eyes, the hint of twilight and gold barely contained. She was hopelessly smitten with him, overwhelmed with unruly emotions of love, pride, hope, and wanting. Without him in her life, she would have died young, on the sharp end of a sword or arrow, on some unknown field, forgotten and uncared for. Instead, she found a home within his heart.

  His lips curved in a tender smile, a golden Wind King of brilliance and strength. After a small falter, she whispered, “I love you, Boyden.” It came out clumsily, the words barely audible.

  “I love you, too.” A thumb traced her brow. “Did you know I fell in love with you the first day I saw you?”

  She grimaced. “I staked you to the ground, demanding submission.”

  “Ah, did I give it to you?”

  “No, you fought me,” she admitted.

  “Then I will allow you to teach me how to submit … after you have rested long and well.”

  His warm tone made her smile. “It may take the rest of my lifetime to teach you.”

  “Aye, I look forward to it,” he parried with a glint in his eyes and she laughed softly.

  “Now rest before the druidess returns and yells at me.” He brushed his lips against her temple. “You and our sons are safe.”

  Scota closed her eyes in contentment and weariness. “Stay close, Boyden.”

  “Always, my warrior.” Boyden took her smaller hand in his.

  EPILOGUE

  Iúl, July

  Two Years Later

  BOYDEN STOOD ON THE RIDGE overlooking the sloping meadows below him, a ruling king of justice. At dawn, he donned a worn tunic and breeches with a pair of comfortable scuffed boots. He had been intent upon working the fields alongside the farmers, but a small dispute over a pig took up most of the early morn.

  He rested his hand on the dagger sheathed at his waist. Farmers and their sons were haymaking in the bright sunlight of mid-morn, an important crop for livestock during the winter months to come. Two wolfhounds bounded after a group of young girls in a fun chase.

  Behind him, a gate hung open on well-made hinges. The main entrance to the ruins of an ancient fortress, it led into an inner courtyard of flat gray stones, long ago etched with spirals and symbols of the wind. Crowning towers and walls protected the inner walkway where sentries stood guard among ancient oaks while village craftsmen rebuilt the breached living quarters. A terrible battle raged here long ago, one of fire and death, destroying much of what was. He experienced no blood memory of it, so it must have happened after the death of the Servant King.

  He nodded to one of the sentries. He did not command the warriors or the craftsmen to come to him. Word had spread of his arrival, and they simply showed up in the courtyard one morn, vowing allegiance to the reign of the new Wind Servant King.

  And so he was, he mused, settling his hands on his hips. All he endured before meeting Scota dulled with the happiness he felt being with her and his sons. He preferred being a father and a mate than a king, but accepted what he was, a restoration of an ancient power forever contained. He would teach his sons to accept their heritage, as well, he thought. All of them were blooded to the Gaoth Shee. The lethal wind lingered near, watchful of her bloodline.

  The scent of lavender touched the air, and he felt a tug on his leg. He looked down at the cherubic face of his dark-haired son.

  “Conall, where did you come from?” Lifting the child, he settled the boy in one arm and turned to greet his beloved.

  Scota smiled warmly. “Good morn, Boyden.”

  “Good morn, my queen.”

  He took her chin and kissed her lightly on the lips. Behind them, one of the helpful village women stood watch over their three other sons, as yellow-haired as their sire. The children tumbled playfully in the tall stalks of grass and wildflowers, their chubby arms batting at each other in glee.

  Scota thought it a fine summer day to share her news with him, but the telling became difficult the more she tried to approach it. “I heard this morn some of the craftsmen found strange bones in the back courtyard.”

  Her son took hold of his father’s long plait and yanked. “I know,” Boyden replied, making a face and freeing his hair. “I commanded the bones not be disturbed.”

  “What are they, Boyden?” When she went to the grave earlier, she felt a strange sensation, a movement of air and wing.

  “ ‘Tis hard to explain.” He shifted his son and gestured to the south meadow where a herd of pale horses grazed, their long white tails swishing.

  “The way we ride our horses, my ancestors mounted large birds.”

  “They flew the air?” she asked incredulous.

  “Aye.”

  She gave a little laugh, finding it hard to imagine. “This place be more enchanted than the faeries.”

  “Aye.” He chuckled and flipped Conall on his back. Holding him close, he tickled the child on his belly.

  Their son squealed in delight, and Scota smiled at the antics of father and son. She glanced over her shoulder. Her other three sons were still tumbling, still laughing. She nodded to the village woman, grateful for her help, and put her hands behind her. Turning back, she looked out upon the working farmers in the lower meadows. Like her handsome Wind King, she had donned a comfortable purple tunic and breeches for rolling in the grass with her precocious sons. She adored them. As soon as they could hold a bow or sword, she would teach them the ways of defense.

  “You will need to build more rooms in the fortress,” she said simply.

  “Scota, there are ten rooms.” He brought Conall back to his brothers.

  Her fingers tightened behind her. “I know it well.”

  “We will make due with what we have for now.”

  He returned to her side and she nodded, evading his gaze. “It may become crowded in a few months.”

  Silence.

  She cast him a sideways glance to see if he understood.

  He was staring at her. “By the winds.”

  “Aye,” she said.

  “Aye?”

  “Oh yes, AYE!”

  He grinned. “When?”

  “Next spring.”

  He reached for her, his hands burying in her hair. “Unreasonable, my Wind Queen. More mouths to feed? How will I ever manage it?”

  She kissed him and murmured against his seeking lips, “Well enough, my love.”

  He laughed proudly. “Aye, we will.”

  With expert grace, he lifted her in his arms and spun about.

  “Boyden!” Scota wrapped her arms around his neck, sputtering on a golden plait. “P-put me down. Are you maddened?”

  “For you I am.” He set her on her feet and stepped boldly back, sweeping his arms wide as if to encompass all the rugged land, all the crystal lochs, and all of the cerulean skies.

  “I give you Scotland, my love. Forevermore.”

  And he did.

  NOTES ON TEXT

  (Where I could, I listed pronunciations in parentheses.)

  Amer
gin— According to some histories, Amergin was a son of the king of Spain, who led the Milesian warriors in an invasion of Eire (Ancient Ireland). He was said to be a druidic bard, able to combat the magic of the Tuatha Dé Danann.

  Brú na Boinne— An olden description of the passage tomb, Newgrange, which sits five miles west of the town of Drogheda near a large bend in the Boyne River.

  Daoine Sidhe— (pronounced “deena shee”) Faery folk.

  Drogheda— (pronounced “draw-da”) “Bridge of the Ford”; a port town in the county of Louth (on the border of the county of Meath) near the Boyne River.

  Fortnight— Fourteen days.

  Gaoth (pronounced “gwee”)— Wind.

  Íth — Íth was said to be an uncle or great-uncle of the king of Spain, who sailed to Eire (Ireland) and was killed in a misunderstanding by three Irish kings. When his body was brought home, the sons of the king of Spain sought to avenge his death.

  Idir— Between.

  La buidhe Bealtuinn— The yellow day of Beltane, May.

  Months— Aibrean (April); Bealtuinn or Beltane (May); Lughnasa (August); Feabhra (February); Iúl (July).

  Mi Na Ngaoth— Month of the winds (February).

  Ŕigdamnai— Persons eligible to be king, set apart from remoter relatives.

  Samhioldanach— Equally-skilled-in-all-arts.

  Sennight— Seven days or one week.

  Shee, Sidhe, or Sí— These are a few of the various names for the faeries of Irish and Scottish Gaelic.

  Stray sod— Enchanted faery ground, where people wander lost.

  Tá tú go h-álainn— (pronounced “taw two guh haulinn”): “You are beautiful.”

  Titim gan éirí ort— (pronounced “chitim gon eye/ree urt”): “May you fall without rising.”

  Teamhair na Rí— The Hill of the Kings.

  Tuatha Dé Danann— Collective term coined in the Middle Ages for the people of the Goddess Dana.

  Undines— Water faeries.

  AUTHOR NOTES

  THE MORE I RESEARCH AND delve into the many realities of ancient Ireland, the more I realize I have a lifetime of learning ahead of me. The history of Ireland can be described as a crooked road of which darkness, legend, and the real weave into storytelling.

  Long ago, it was a land of winds and of oak-woods except for the bog and mountain areas. Intensive farming overtook the yews, oaks, and hollies, giving way to a sense of the land we have today. Ireland is still one of the windiest places in the world due to the influence of frontal depressions caused by the earth’s movement, and as I wrote this book over five blistery months in 2006, I gained a deeper respect for the gusting currents that toppled a dead tree branch (the size of a small oak) onto my house.

  In White Fells, I revisit the ancient Irish text known as the Lebor Gabála, Book of Invasions. The Milesians, known also as Hiberi, Iberi, Gaedhal, Gaeli, and Scotti, were the final invaders of Ireland.

  On one Sunday afternoon, the tale of Íth caught my attention. He was a traveler who sailed to Hibernia (Ireland) and met the country’s three kings. In a tragic misunderstanding, he was killed and his body sent home. In vengeance for their uncle, the sons of King Mil Espáine took to their ships and conquered Hibernia (Ireland). The Tuatha Dé Danann were defeated at the battle of Tailtiu (pronounced “telltown”) and after a short resistance a truce was reached. The Milesians retained the above ground, and the Tuatha Dé Danann went below, becoming the faeries …

  However, a few researchers maintain … that the Milesians never existed.

  An interesting side note: Some ancient texts mention a mysterious woman named Scota, who accompanied the sons of King Mil across the sea. Very little is known about her.

  A special presentation of R. Garland Gray’s

  FEY BORN

  CHAPTER 1

  Drumanagh, Eire

  Spring

  HE STOOD AT THE EDGE of the high ranging meadows where the horses of the tribe grazed. Darkly lashed eyelids closed in exquisite pleasure. Slowly, his head tilted back, long brown hair flowing down his bare back in dampening glints of red and gold. It began to rain, a gathering of gray clouds muting the light of the late afternoon. He sighed deeply, tasting the sweet air of Meitheamh, June, in his lungs and savoring the touch of cool raindrops upon his naked and responsive flesh.

  He was fey born, a purebred creature of sensations and selfishness. A legendary guardian of the waters, he was crafted of cruelty and enchantment, a being to be feared; a being whose true form must remain secret. He knew he should not be here and thought of the olden ways with a sharp surge of resentment. There was no sense in being bored, he thought rebelliously.

  Wearing his mortal appearance, he lived among the tribe of the Tuatha Dé Danann now. A fierce, loyal, and constant warrior — he slowly grinned — answering to the given name of Keegan. The name meant “highly spirited.” An admirable name, he chuckled darkly. If only they knew …

  Lana, a farm girl of unimpressive worth, at least that is how she thought of herself, stumbled back behind the ancient oaks and nearly dropped the druidess’s basket of herbs. She had been making her customary visit to see Lightning, the aged sorrel stallion, when fat raindrops plopped and splashed upon the land. Dashing into the tall oaks for cover, a shortcut back to the village, she had never thought to see him.

  Like that!

  Lana set the basket down on a dry spot beneath a thick canopy of branches and took a moment to catch her breath. Swiping a drenched blond curl out of her eyes, she peered around the thick tree trunk, unable to help herself. The fading light caught the silver glint from the cuff he always wore on his right wrist.

  She looked at the lines of his body and blinked to clear her vision. Lightning and three black mares calmly grazed around the naked warrior in acceptance of the afternoon rain showers. From what she could see, Keegan’s silvery gray eyes were closed, his angular face tilted upward as if listening to the rain’s chant of faery whispers. The corners of his lips slowly curved and Lana had the impression the raindrops sang to him of their joyous journey from the stormy clouds to the green land below.

  She watched him in silent fascination as any female would. His lean, well-built body was turned slightly away from her, offering a splendid view of long limbs and curved buttocks. If she leaned right, she might get a glimpse of that very impressive male part of him. Good sense took hold, however, and she decided to stay under the protection of the trees. Besides, she could see him well enough from here, she reasoned. He looked taller without clothes. All that smooth skin she could just imagine running the tips of her fingers over the ripple of muscle and strength.

  Lana drew back. She must learn to curtail her over-active imagination. She might be impulsive, but she was not stupid. The gentle sound of the rain pattered consistently in her ears, and she tugged the laces of her damp tunic closer with cold fingers. Never could she hope to know the remote Keegan in that way, or any warrior, given her frail condition.

  He stood not ten horse lengths from her, his dark hair falling in wet plaits down his broad back. He was not born of her tribe. However, he had earned the right to belong to the warrior class of the Tuatha Dé Danann. He came during the time of shadows only two summers before. A freeman, he worked hard and trained hard with sword, spear, and shield. Last year he fought bravely in the battle of Kindred, the recapturing of their ancestral home from the invaders, yet still he was considered an outsider by many.

  He did not partake of their ways, and did not seek payment for his fine skills. Instead, he offered to help her father in the fields. A warrior on a farm? She shook her head in bewilderment and rubbed her wet nose. If she remained much longer, she might catch a chill, but feminine curiosity took hold of her and she could do nothing else but look.

  “Caught in the spring showers, too, Lana?”

  Lana straightened abruptly in surprise, her hand clenched across her chest. With flushed cheeks, she stared guiltily at the white-haired druidess, Derina.

  “Yo
ur heart bothers you?” the druidess asked in concern.

  “Nay,” Lana choked, embarrassed at being found gaping at the naked warrior. She took a recovering breath, feeling the familiar twinges inside her chest. Everyone in the village knew of her weak heart, lack of stamina, and occasional fainting spells. However, unlike some others, the ancient was always helpful and sympathetic, which was odd since most members of the druid class were callous. She heard so, anyway.

  “Come to visit that mean-tempered stallion again?” the druidess prompted, moving under the protection of the canopy. “What be his name?” Her white brows drew together and then she answered her own question, a common occurrence. “Lightning, methinks.”

  “Aye.” Lana bristled slightly at the description of her friend. “Lightning is not mean-tempered, at least not to me,” she whispered, hoping the naked warrior could not hear them. “He has mellowed much over the years.”

  The druidess was not listening to her.

  She shifted right and appeared to be looking, if looking could be used to describe one who had no eyes and yet could see.

  “Ah,” the ancient said in a hushed tone, understanding immediately. She pointed her walking stick. “You be visiting another kind of stallion today.”

  Lana turned apple red. “I am not visiting,” she said firmly in a hushed tone.

  “Watching then.”

  “I am not watching,” she protested.

  The ancient smiled. “I would.”

  Lana looked away, wondering how the blind druidess could possibly know.

  “He fascinates you, Lana?”

  “Please lower your voice. I doona wish him to hear us.”

  The druidess nodded and hunched her shoulders, leaning forward. “He fascinates you?” she repeated her question with less volume and more emphasis.

  “Aye, he does.” Lana admitted grudgingly. Keegan captivated her interest since he first came to the tribe two seasons before. He always smelled clean and fresh like the rain even when soiled with toil and sweat.